Category: Uncategorized

So we joined a committee…

We joined a committee today — a very interesting one: a committee of Turkey Vultures.

On my way to the Passenger Prince’s work, there’s a huge group of Turkey Vultures that like to sun their wings on the surrounding trees. I kept calling them a flock, but apparently, the proper term is a committee when they’re perched in trees.

I first noticed them when I started driving the Passenger Prince to work and asked if he had ever seen them. Apparently, he never had. It’s a big group of birds with an impressive wingspan — for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how he’d never noticed them before.

What I’ve learned from being his chauffeur is that we really do notice different things. Once, we were both looking at a new car that passed by and wondered if it might be electric. I looked for the power hookup area while he looked for the exhaust pipe. We laughed when we compared notes — we were both right, just using different methods.

Ever since then, the Passenger Prince and I have been very involved in this committee. We check which trees or buildings they’re perched on, how large the group is that morning, and how they seem to be doing.

It’s a conversation that, if you’d asked me years ago, I would have laughed at the idea of having. But just like our almost forty years together, our marriage and our conversations evolve — and apparently, we even join committees.

Shooshed by the Passenger Prince

The Passenger Prince shooshed me today — shooshed me! — as I was driving him to work.

Me. The one who wakes up early just to be his driver.

The Passenger Prince has been medically banned from driving ever since I sent him to Costco to buy dog food, and instead, he had a seizure somewhere between the BBQ chicken and the sushi display. We often joke that he suffered from sticker shock.

Ever since that day, he’s had to give up his independence and rely on me as his personal chauffeur. The early days were rough. I was told how to drive. My music choices were critiqued. I received many complaints.

But somehow, over the past several months, the Passenger Prince has grown accustomed to his new life of luxury. He does Duolingo, takes calls, and scrolls his phone while I navigate traffic and speed bumps.

And today — in my own car — I was shooshed.

Since this shocking shooshing incident, I’m now considering a demotion for the Passenger Prince: relocating him to the backseat, where there are no seat warmers, no audio controls, and no royal privileges. The dogs, meanwhile, are up for promotion to the coveted passenger throne.

Then again… I did not marry the dogs.
So maybe his crown is safe — for now.

Life in the driver’s seat

One of my favorite radio personalities used to start his show by saying, “Today is better than most, but not as good as some.”
 Today was one of those not as good as some days.

We got the latest blood test results, and besides not getting the news we were hoping for, we didn’t get any answers about why the seizure happened in the first place. Instead, the results only led to more questions—and more anxiety. It feels like we’re not even close to understanding what’s really going on, let alone finding a solution.

The stress, anxiety, disappointment, and resulting anger definitely made themselves known. I tend to hide my anxiety better than my “passenger prince”—which probably explains my stress-induced autoimmune issues.

While the focus is on him, his treatment, and his recovery, I keep reminding myself that I need to take care of myself too.
My tears were well hidden behind my sunglasses and the need to keep my eyes on the road. He didn’t see—or maybe didn’t notice—my mood.

Life in the driver’s seat isn’t fun. There’s no GPS to route us to a fun destination. But just like the car I drive, maintenance is required—to keep both the vehicle and me running.

Is Pilates a Form of Torture? Maybe. But It’s My Stress Relief! 

I love Pilates and most of the instructors at my studio. But some days, a class feels like a game of Twister — a game that, if I were 20 years (or even ten) younger, might have felt easy.

These days, though, each class is a little harder. My body hurts. And yet I keep going, again and again, and accept the pain.

This morning’s Twister routine? One hand on the box, one hand on the reformer bar, one leg on the shoulder block, and the other leg in the air. It hurts just to describe it. Somehow, I managed to tackle all these instructions. Honestly, I was just grateful the instructor didn’t ask us to sing a song — that would’ve been the end of me.

After all that, she came over and corrected my posture for the next exercise. Apparently, my leg is capable of a 90-degree angle. She told me she did it out of “love.” Probably a love of pain.

And yet, I go three to four times a week and wonder: how bad would it be if I didn’t take Pilates?

Why do I do this to myself? Because it’s good for my body — even if I hate it sometimes — and it’s very good for my soul.

Two months ago, my husband had a seizure. Since then, my regular stress life has turned into full-blown stress — with no relief in sight. Stress relief, for me, means not thinking for a little while. But when you’re stressed, your mind races, and you can’t stop thinking.

Enter: Pilates.

I get so caught up in the Twister-like shenanigans during class that thinking becomes impossible. The only thing on my mind is: Is my balance working? Are all my body parts where they’re supposed to be?

I don’t care that I’m not wearing a cute matching Pilates outfit. All that matters in that class is stress relief.

I am stronger now — at least physically. Mentally, my brain is still trying to figure out all those crazy Pilates moves… without falling.

Conversations from the Driver’s Seat

My life as a driver continues—although I got a break yesterday, as my husband had a friend take him to work. That gave me the rare opportunity to sleep in. Well, to “sleep in” until 7:20 a.m., when Shuki, the family dog, decided I’d slept enough.

I needed a driving break—not because driving itself was the problem, but because someone at work decided to stick an early meeting on my calendar. A meeting I couldn’t take from the car because, of course, they needed to see my face.

Not all meetings are productive. This one definitely wasn’t. Not due to lack of preparation or context, but because of the participants.

When we’re faced with change—professional or personal—we’re not always open to it. There’s fear involved: fear of leaving our comfort zones and confronting challenges that force us to adapt. I couldn’t quite understand the strong reaction in that meeting. I saw the big picture. I had already been part of the transition being discussed. So I was surprised by the resistance.

Back in the driver’s seat today, I shared all of this with my husband. He offered a perspective I hadn’t considered: that people often resist change not because they don’t understand it, but because they’re afraid—afraid of having to learn new things, of stepping into unfamiliar roles, of failing.

Driving still isn’t something I enjoy. I much prefer my “passenger princess” role. We’re still waiting on his medical test results, which is why I’ve taken on this new morning routine. But these forced drives have brought one unexpected benefit: the chance to talk. With our opposing work schedules, we rarely get that during the week.

I still get annoyed when he tells me how to drive. But I do appreciate these small, quiet moments we share together.

From a Passenger Princess to a Warrior Princess

I used to be a passenger princess—and I loved it. My husband did all the driving while I relaxed in the passenger seat, helping with directions, reading a book, or scrolling through social media.

We love road trips, and I probably enjoyed them more because I didn’t have to drive. But then, the seizure came. One moment, my handsome chauffeur was behind the wheel, and the next, I became the driver—and he, the passenger prince.

Let’s just say… he hasn’t adjusted to his new princely status very well. In fact, he’s still learning the etiquette of being a proper passenger prince.

The transition from being the driver (and occasional backseat driver) to sitting quietly in the passenger seat has been a tough one for him. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s asked, “Did you see that car?” or “Why are you taking this route instead of the other one?” and plenty more unsolicited driving commentary.

What’s funny is that for years, I drove the kids around while he never seemed to care how I drove. But now? Suddenly, I’m under review like I’m applying for a chauffeur’s license.

I try to respond with humor—most of the time. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t occasionally want to turn him into a frog.

This new role as the warrior princess behind the wheel doesn’t come with an expiration date. My patience, however, occasionally does.

Here’s hoping he gives me five stars on Yelp.

My Wegovy Journey: Weight Loss, Wellness, and Dancing at My Daughter’s Wedding

I’ve lost almost 45 pounds over the last eighteen months. My endocrinologist, gastroenterologist, and cardiologist all agreed that weight loss would be key to getting my health back on track. In fact, I had a prescription and insurance approval for eight months before I finally went to get it filled — and I’ve been on Wegovy ever since.

Being in your late fifties with autoimmune diseases, insulin resistance, and menopause is not easy. For years, I gained two pounds a month, no matter what I did. Yes, I’m active. I walk 10,500 steps a day, go to the gym, and take reformer Pilates classes. But it didn’t seem to matter — I couldn’t lose weight. I just kept gaining.

My husband always had suggestions: exercise more, eat fewer calories, try intermittent fasting. Trust me, I tried them all — and nothing worked. Lucky for him, he’s a six-foot-tall man who can shed weight easily. I, on the other hand, am a curvy, petite woman who’s had three kids.

I was worried about side effects from the medication — I tend to be very sensitive. But to my surprise and relief, Wegovy helped in unexpected ways. My IBS improved dramatically. I was less bloated, and the constant nausea I used to live with finally stopped. I no longer have to plan my day around knowing where every bathroom is. That, in itself, felt like a small miracle.

When someone asked me what my goal weight was, they were surprised by my answer. My goal wasn’t a number on the scale — it was about my cholesterol and blood sugar levels.

My life hasn’t changed drastically, but I’ve dropped two sizes. I bought a few new outfits, and now I fit better in my old clothes too. But perhaps the best moment? I danced all night at my daughter’s wedding — something I wouldn’t have been able to do a year and a half ago.

I feel better. I sleep better. And now, I’m waiting to see those blood test results come back in range — the final confirmation that I’m truly back on track.

The Sounds We Forget to Hear

The Sounds We Forget to Hear

Hearing is something most of us take for granted. We rarely pause to notice the sounds that surround us—the rustle of leaves, the hum of traffic, the laughter of children. Instead, we walk through life plugged into headphones, filling every moment with music, podcasts, or phone calls. We wear them when we walk, talk, commute, and definitely when we exercise.

This week, my youngest made crème brûlée. She’s been perfecting her recipes lately and this time offered dairy-free, vegan, and lactose-free options. In our household, that’s not just a nice gesture—it’s a necessity. We are a home full of celiacs, lactose-free lifestyles, and IBS sufferers. My children, poor things, didn’t need a genetic test to prove maternity—they inherited all my “fun” genes: the celiac gene, the IBS gene, and definitely the lactose intolerance gene.

But here’s the moment that gave me pause: as she torched the sugar on top of the crème brûlée, I heard it. The delicate, satisfying crackle of caramelizing sugar. That beautiful, subtle sound was only possible for me to enjoy because I had my hearing aids in. Without them, I’d have missed it entirely. That tiny moment of joy made me think about how much we miss when we don’t stop and really listen.

Take Charlie, our neighborhood squirrel. Charlie is something of a local character—and a sworn enemy of our dogs. (They’re terriers. It’s instinct.) Charlie, bold as ever, hisses at them from his perch on the tree. Every time he does it and I actually hear it, I can’t help but laugh. It’s such a strange, small sound—one I never noticed before hearing aids. But now I hear it, and every time I do, I’m delighted.

When I was younger, my mother used to warn me: “Don’t listen to music so loud—you’ll ruin your hearing!” I wish that was the reason I have hearing loss. But for me, it’s just part of the hand I was dealt.

I remember the day I got my first hearing aids. My audiologist looked at me and said, “Just a heads-up—the world is loud.” She wasn’t wrong. It is loud. But it’s also incredible. Hearing the world—even when it’s loud—is a gift.

So if you can hear the birds in the morning, the hiss of a squirrel, or the crackle of sugar on a homemade dessert—pause for a moment. Take your headphones off. Listen. The world has so much to say, and it’s worth hearing.

Still on the Road: From Minivans to Empty Nest Adventures

Still on the Road: From Minivans to Empty Nest Adventures

We always took road trips with the kids. Every other year, we’d pack the car to the brim and just go—no rigid plans, just the open road and a map. Over the years, we explored the entire West Coast of the USA this way, stopping at national parks and hidden gems along the route.

The kids would argue, bicker, and sometimes make us question whether they were enjoying any of it. But deep down, we knew—we were creating memories.

Back then, we drove a trusty minivan. The girls took the second-row captain’s seats, while our son (now a six-foot-two adult) claimed the back row, stretching his legs all the way to the front and occasionally sticking them in his sisters’ faces—just for laughs, of course.

We even did a two-week road trip across Canada. We really did travel a lot, and on a limited budget. With one income, three kids, a dog, and lots of coupons and budgeting tricks, car trips were simply the most economical—and the most memorable.

These past few years, the kids have grown up, started jobs, and moved on with their own lives. And yet, my husband and I are still hitting the road—just the two of us. No more minivan, now it’s an SUV. We pick an area, pack the car, and go.

This year was a little harder to plan. Our daughter got married. My husband went on a two-week biking trip across Europe with our son, which made his vacation time limited. I, on the other hand, had the opposite problem—plenty of unused vacation days and no one to go with.

After some back and forth—debating between a cruise, an all-inclusive resort, or another road trip—we chose the road. It’s funny, really. We don’t have the same financial limitations anymore, but we still picked the simplest option.

The truth is, we just love road trips. For us, it’s a time to reconnect. We talk, laugh, and reflect. Not every conversation is deep or exciting—401(k)s and investments come up, and I admit I tune some of those out—but even the silences are meaningful.

I used to worry about what would happen once the kids left. Would we run out of things to say? But lucky for us, we’re still discovering new things to talk about—even if we don’t always agree.

I hope we’ve passed on to our kids a love of adventure, and the understanding that no matter your stage of life, seeing new places is always worth it—with kids, or without.

What’s your favorite road trip memory?

“Apparently, ‘I’ Is a Problem”

This past week, I was reprimanded at work—verbally, of course. They never put anything in writing.

No, I didn’t do anything outrageous. I sent an email about IT problems in the office. Since the IT guy was scheduled to stop by, I wrote that I needed something fixed.

The horror. Apparently, writing “I need” instead of “we need” is a big enough deal to warrant a call from my boss.

To clarify: the IT problems were specific to me. I was the one whose internet wasn’t working. I was the one using my personal hotspot and personal cell phone to get work done.

Still, my boss looked me in the eye and told me it was inappropriate to write “I.” I asked if she was serious. She was.

But wait—there’s more.

Last month, I got pulled aside because “someone” heard me say I had maxed out my vacation days and needed to start using them. That was apparently gossip-worthy.

This is a pattern. I keep getting spoken to—always verbally, never formally—about things “someone” heard me say.

What’s strange is that this is not a terrible place to work. Most people are kind, helpful, and just trying to do their jobs. But management? That’s another story.

Ironically, my annual review was glowing, and my bonus was great. So, clearly, I’m doing something right. Right?

We even did harassment training earlier this year. It had a section on bullying and toxic behavior. I guess some folks in management skipped that part.

Let me be clear:

  • Is this nitpicking? Yes.
  • Is it creating a culture of fear and second-guessing? Absolutely.
  • Is it starting to feel toxic? More and more.
  • Am I being targeted? It really feels like it.
  • Why? I honestly have no idea.

This is a private, family-owned company. I’m not a threat. I’m not gunning for anyone’s job. I just want to do my work, collect my paycheck, and go home to my dog.

When my boss called me about the email, I said what I’ve been thinking: “This feels like harassment.” I asked that future complaints be formal and in writing.

Not holding my breath on that one.

So now I’m wondering:
Do I just show up this week and wait for whatever “someone” says next?
Do I say nothing?
Do I start documenting everything and protect myself?

I don’t know the answer yet. But I do know this: I’m not crazy. And I’m not alone.